


The Miracle of the Spartan Feast

by ReduxCath



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Biting, Drinking, Licking, Lots of Cum, M/M, Ritual Public Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: Sparta has won a great battle against Athens, and the victory has delivered it both excellent trade deals and lucrative areas of territory. As such, the citizens feast in celebration, to give thanks to the gods for granting them this fine, fine victory. As the god of revelry and merrymaking, Dionysus is present. And as the patron deity of the Spartan city-state, Ares is present as well.
Relationships: Ares/Aphroite (mentioned), Ares/Dionysus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	The Miracle of the Spartan Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I simp murder man and drink man. And yes, I'll muse about the nature of drinking and revelry in a smut fic.

The halls of the king of Sparta’s castle glow.

Shadows move and weave around slowly like figures upon stone-colored water. The many lights of the lamps, candles, and fireplaces that are being lit give their flattery to Helios as he dips down slowly, painting the horizon orange and red. They will never match the brilliance and life-giving warmth of the sun, but they are like miniature suns in themselves. The wax is of excellent quality, as are the wicks, made to burn for hours with minimal attention required. Their flames waft with the air as the smells of delicious food and drink mingle with the presence of voices. A single smell, a single whiff, would tell of exquisite ingredients and preparation. Of rich spices and good, hearty meats and fruits.

Dionysus looks over a general who is feeding his wife a strawberry, and his eyes crinkle when a single drop of pink juice dribbles down her chin, her bald, scarred, happy husband wiping it off.

He supposes they deserve it. After that show they pulled in that battle with Athens? Hoo, boy.

The god of revelry and merrymaking has borne witness to celebrations such as this all over the red city of Sparta. Houses big and small lit up with the laughter and the cheers and the quiet anticipation that comes from listening to scarred and muscled men tell stories of their exploits. He goes where he pleases, appearing in houses as an acquaintance, as someone who is vaguely recognizable to at least one of the guests. They always welcome him, even after a moment of hesitation from some of the more perceptive types, for he never means to harm. He means to unravel, to disrobe, to dance with and expose. But to harm? Well, that all depended on how they handled their drink, didn’t it?

“Those Athenians put up a good fight, I heard.” He sips from his cup.

The bearded man before him grins, his facial mane twisting in his delight. “A good fight? We sent them running back up the hills!” His soul sparked with the light of pride.

“They give you this scar?” He asks, touching the man’s cheek with the back of his fingernail. Looks deep. But it does something for his smile that Dionysus can’t help but like.

The blonde bearded warrior scoffs, pleasure at the touch rumbling under his skin. A good boy. “Please, you should see the other guy.”

“Where’s the other guy?” He cocks his eyebrow, giggling. Ah, wine tastes so good.

“Dead!” and they all laugh.

This gentleman is certainly a riot. His eyes momentarily trace the path of Dionysus’ fingers, and for a moment the god weighs the pros of taking this mortal to bed and exchanging some good seed. But his attention is only being given to Dionysus in tantalizing drips. He’s eying a certain girl with gorgeous kinky curls and long fingers, with nails that look like shells from the sea. For a moment, he imagines him twirling with her and filling her up with rough, loud thrusts, and while he does feel a pang of jealousy (he can see the man is packing), the merrymaker has always been a good sport about these things.

They’d make a cute couple, after all.

So Dionysus stretches out his hand past the realm of mortal perception for a moment, casts a charm on this scarred, bearded fellow with the golden hair. He is suddenly more alert, a little hotter, and with a nice “come on, man, you only live once” from Dionysus in disguise, the flower of confidence blooms in his chest. He grabs a cup from Dionysus, and goes off to talk to the woman, who immediately blushes.

He considers amping up the blessing in those wine glasses, but then he sees an aura of rose petals around the two, and waves it away. His work is done.

“My oh my, I never took _you_ for a matchmaker.”

Dionysus chuckles. “Maaan, I’m just all about helpin’ brothers out.” He grins. But realizes that the two other men who were with him have already gone. He barely catches them going to talk with their friend and his gorgeous woman of interest before realizing he is alone with someone he doesn’t know. Another perfect stranger.

Dark skin, strong shoulders, strong jaw. Sure, it’s certainly a handsome visage, but it doesn’t do _him_ the justice it should.

The Lord of Grapes smiles, puts his arm around the other and lets their energy crackle deliciously between their skin. “A- _reeeesss_ , my man!! The flimsy illusion is torn apart like a teasing bit of fabric trying to hide bits. The Lord of Bloodshed, God of War chuckles, fully revealed and finally as tall as Dionysus himself. Dionysus pushes himself off lightly and cocks his half-empty wine glass. “If you were here you should’ve _said_ so, brother!”

Ares smiles nonchalantly as he takes one of the cheese slices on display. “You would have me leave my own city during a day like this?”

Dionysus looks at Ares, shakes his head with easy refusal that echoes the buzz he’s flirting around with. “Oh, I think I might find you celebrating the victories of war just about anywhere.”

“So you’re saying these other cities can best mine at a party?” The other man smiles as he eats his cheese. He is happy, positively tickled by the red victory that he had been able to enjoy at the hands of his flock.

“Mmmmmm, well I ain’t one to get down with all that comparison business, but…”

And that’s all the encouragement Ares needs for the lamps to burn a little brighter, for his people to sing and dance a little harder. Dionysus shudders in delight at the swell of energy in this castle, at the cheerful cries of children mixing with the low laughter of adults. “Mm _mmm_ , if this is what having a city-state gets you, I might make my own.”

“What would be their main export? Grapes?”

“And other things, why not?” He makes a lewd gesture.

Ares hits his shoulder, laughing. “You damned grave robber.”

Apparently, the man that Dionysus had blessed for that single moment was the son of Sparta’s second in command. Dionysus’ purple eyes spied him walking around with his woman. When he came up to a man in shining armor and the woman bowed respectfully, he knew. “Thank you for helping the boy along.” Ares muttered, gently clinking his wine glass against the foot of Dionysus’. “He’s a beast on the battlefield. Has had a gift since he was a child. But in the matter of women, he’s woefully hampered by his insecurities.”

Dionysus sipped from his drink. “Happy to help.”

He considered himself young. It was fairly easy to do as one of the Great Olympians, considering that about half of his great family sported visible wrinkles and spoke of a time when Law was but a hypothesis upon the earth. Yet he had seen many things in his time. Met many people, sang many songs. Dionysus loved humanity and all they did. He lavished them with wine and herbs, with gifts to stoke the fires of their joy and break down the walls between them. But their hearts had as much wickedness as virtue.

He was no fool. Alcohol released the inhibitions of the soul and let the beast inside of man rear its head unencumbered. It was to be used for certain things, and avoided for others. Yet though he was a god who sang the importance of fun whenever he had the chance, he was not one for indiscriminate savagery. And there _were_ those who drank and became savage—or, sometimes, who let their savagery out under the guise of wine and made him bear witness to their ugliness.

“Look there, Aindrea has woo’ed Melanie.”

“That Melanie, the weaver’s daughter?”

“Oh man, she’s a proud one. You think he’ll be able to convince her?”

“Methinks he should just take what’s his and be done with it. She’ll come around, they always do.”

Dionysus’s eternal smile stopped being eternal, and he scowled.

Yes, man was as beautiful as he was ugly.

He turned his head, and met eyes with Ares. Red eyes, always so handsome and hungry for war.

They blazed in a way that made his skin crawl deliciously.

Dionysus would be the first to admit it: his family was _fucked_ up. Fucked up beyond compare, to the point that The Queen had to have the most insulting and ironic job in all the cosmos as child-bearer and family-rearer. A lot of cosmic patricides, led by shining rapists. Oh of course his Father and Uncle would never hear the words come out of his mouth, but everyone knew.

But that’s why he liked Ares.

That’s why he kept his eyes trained on that firm backside, on those wide shoulders, and on that shining silver hair as he bent space and carried those words to the fathers of Melanie and Aindrea. That’s why he smiled as Ares pulled the fibers of these scoundrel’s leg muscles taut, cashing in on the muscle spasms they _should_ have suffered under the battlefield.

Ares was a murderer. A razer. A bloodthirsty hound with a honeyed voice who made his wine from the corpses of men.

“If I should hear such _drivel_ from your _pig mouths_ one more time, by Greatfather Zeus, I swear…” Aindrea’s father spoke with knives in his throat.

But Ares knew where he stood, and knew how to get others to do what he wanted. And for all the things he had done, the god never behaved in a way that would betray his manhood. A possible low bar, but with a family like theirs, Dionysus considered him shy a saint. The merrymaker rewarded the man-maker with a fresh cup of wine when he returned. “It’s so good to see your city is led by honorable men.”

“At times, when I can get my hands on them.” Ares mused. He was not smiling anymore.

Dionysus huffed a warm breath into his face. Made their foreheads touch together. He could take him then and there. But no. Just this touch, for now, is fine. “The ladies love a man who cares.”

Selene hung across the sky, her daughters sparkling around her softly. Smart Artemis would be hunting about now with her nymphs in the nearby forest. If Dionysus wanted to, really wanted to, he could possibly hear her victorious yell.

But the Lord of Grapes was completely enraptured with his companion. They walked together in the courtyards, phasing through the houses of the rich, the less rich, and even the poor. They heard stories of the war from different perspectives. Saw young men being congratulated by their older mentors, with cute little women waiting to speak to their manly heroes. And Dionysus stood next to Ares as they listened to the mortals speak and laugh and get to doing other fun stuff.

_Very_ fun stuff.

“I suppose my men can be rewarded with a night of fun after that display of conquest.” Ares mused as a general and his best friend pounded his moaning wife together. The two gods watched, amused, their robes tenting, as the woman took her husband and his friend in the same hole, begging for more until the men grinned and surprised her with a rhythm to shut her up in the most delicious way possible. They listened for a moment more, until sounds of sweet climax reached their ears and they decided to leave the menage trois alone.

The crisp, cold air of the night contrasted deliciously with the warmth of the palace and the houses. Dionysus stumbled slightly, ever in the spirit of his enterprise, and took the chance to lean on Ares’s strong, sculpted arms. What a man. “I hear your men reward themselves even before they win.” A high moan mixed with a guttural grunt, and the two gods turned to see three young men in the throes of passion. Older warriors, scarred and strong and passionate, were playing their young bodies like harps. A twist of a nipple here and a bite of an earlobe there. Dionysus grinned at Ares as he spied one of the cupbearers in that arrangement, having mistaken him for a warring youth for a moment. “What’s the philosophy again?”

“It makes them into stronger men.” Ares answered, voice deep as he looked at his warriors and licked red fire off his lips. Under this moonlight his skin looked as black as onyx, as his eyes were as red as gems.

But enough about that. “You Spartans, always so _coy_!” Dionysus rolled his eyes. “You should just admit you like to have a bit of a swing every now and again. It’s not like people will _judge_ you for it.”

“Ah, but the ritual is what makes it better, no?” Ares smiled at Dionysus, skin glowing with the worship of his men and women.

“Perhaps.” Dionysus said, sultry, putting his arms (toned, he was no slouch) around that perfect neck.

“Oh, _shit…!”_

The whispered curse knocked Dionysus right through his buzz and back into soberville. He grumbled as Ares chuckled and turned away from him. The two gods went through to the source of the complaint, accentuated above all other noises. It had been like finding a dead flower among a vibrant garden, and the Grape-Lord hated the cacophony. They appeared in the kitchen of the castle, where the servants were scratching their heads. “What’s going on?” They glamoured themselves to be as servants as well.

“Ugh, god _dammit_ , where _were_ you two?!” A red-faced man, _very_ rude, spat at Dionysus. The god huffed, fingers prickling with intent.

“Leader of the servants, heave some patience with him.” Ares quickly whispered into his ear, brushing his lips against it like the _blasted_ cocktease that he was. Fine, he’d be merciful. “Apologies, sir. We were helping a few of the women rerobe. What happened?”

“Ugh, they’re having sex _already_ —” He shook his head, then dragged his hands across his face. “We’ve run out of wine! We don’t have any more drink to serve the guests!” He twisted a casket and shook it. Dionysus felt the ache of the wooden barrel before he heard the empty rattling. Absolutely drained. Such a sad sound. “And the guests are already _fucking_ —we’re finished! Through! Once the king finds out about this—” With trembling hands, the leader of the servants turned to a young man with copper hair. “You!! Weren’t you and your _boyfriend_ supposed to be in charge of stocking up wine for the celebrations?”

The young man began to stammer, and Dionysus blinked. “I-I-I thought we had everything prepared, sir! Honest!” He held his fingers together while another man next to him looked down at his sandals. “We got every grape we had. It’s just, the weather, there’s not much, and—"

“Oh, boy.” He murmured. This _was_ quite the predicament. It was just the _first_ _night_ of this revelry, projected to last for an entire week, and they’d already ran out of wine? On top of that, this delicious cold _was_ indicative of the start of a colder season. Yes, he could very easily blame the boy for his incompetence. However, Demeter’s blasted temperament had made things harder for all mortals across the globe.

Either way, a celebration for such a great event as a won war should last a week _at least_. For the wine to dry up this early was nothing short of a travesty. Dionysus thought of Melanie and Aindrea, their parents, and even the idiots whom they considered friends and comrades. For these to be rewarded for their valiance with such a situation— “Oh, we’re doomed. Doomed!” The head servant cried into his hands.

Ares injected persuasion into his voice. “I’m sure there’s got to be some wine in one of our storage chambers, sir. If we look one more time, I’m sure we’ll be able to hold out until at least tomorrow.”

The head servant looked at Ares, his favored god from childhood, like he was a misguided sap. Dionysus looked at the patience on Ares’ face and nodded. So _this_ is what a spectacular victory got the Spartans. “Oh, young lad, were things so easy as you say! Were we to be so lucky!”

And then, a faithful woman servant nodded. “I’m sure there’s got to be some wine left over.” Dionysus and Ares turned, with Dionysus leaning over just a bit. Was she glowing, this unassuming girl? Was that roses he smelled? Her sweet voice washed over his ears, and he felt her warmth seep into his already flushed skin. “Come on, if we have faith, I’m sure the gods will help us through this!”

“You think the gods would help servants such as us?” The head servant asked, terror hiding behind the bite of his words.

They were a fickle sort, the Olympians. Dionysus cast his lot in there with the rest. They were prone to mood swings, to favoritism, to riddles and tongue twisters that teased both mortal and divine minds, just so that they might find those that would be able to pierce through the haze and understand them. They could’ve just as easily left these faithless whelps to their own devices, gone back to enjoying the sex before the inevitable anger and frustration of the hung-over morning.

But maybe it was because of winter’s coming arrival, and the encroaching depression of Demeter. Maybe it was to keep the flame of pride and joy alive that had been sparked from a well-earned victory. Maybe it was to keep the food coming and the good times going. But whatever the reason, Dionysus kept his eyes trained on that plain, flat-chested girl.

A good girl. A good daughter, brave to learn the art of farming and cultivation, pious with all members of his family.

Ah, hope, the greatest wine of all. “It’s worth a shot.” Dionysus said, commanding the servants. With words of power, he tugged on their attention. “If I’m not mistaken, there _should_ be a couple more barrels of wine in the cellar down below. The one nearest to the eastern garden. There’s probably some other things we can pull to make the drink last longer.” As his words wove themselves into the servants’ ears, he saw them brighten up, nod, and start to remember the path. From their hearts sprung prayers, fat and full of hope, like grapes in late spring. Their power flowed into Dionysus, and as he recognized those wishes, he began to hum with the energy of their intention.

“…Fine, we’ll _try._ ” The head servant said, biting his lip and sending out a deluge of prayers with every fiber of his being. What a _loudmouth_! But even this kind of overly-earnest sort had his place in the world. “Let’s save this goddamned party.” And he began to dole out orders.

Dionysus was well aware of Ares’ eyes on the back of his neck, of the way the blood god was breathing. When the head servant turned to them, a pulse of power from the man-maker made him just shake his hand and turn away. With that, they were out of the scene, and the real servants went to seek refreshments one last time.

Dionysus sighed when he felt rough, calloused fingers on his shoulders. “Couldn’t wait much longer?”

“You heard them.” Ares said, voice husky in his ear. He licked the rim of his earlobe before suckling on the cook of his neck, and when Dionysus mewled like a virgin for the hell of it (he was absolutely _not_ a virgin), the war god dragged his teeth across his skin. “They want this celebration to be a success.”

“I’ll do it.” Dionysus breathed out as he turned and smashed his hips into Ares, locking him in place against the wide kitchen counter. “If only for that little lady.”

Ares grinned at him, his red eyes glowing with lust as his hand cupped a full, thick cheek. “Not for the head servant?”

A moment of thought. “Sure.” Dionysus licked at Ares’s chin, tasting the ashes mixed in with his sweat. “He looks like he bends down often enough.”

They chuckled low as their cocks rubbed against each other.

And so, Dionysus got to work.

As a god of nature and growth, Dionysus’ tools and rewards were often one and the same. Seeds would grow into vines, which would become fruits, which would be squashed and squeezed by man as he beat the juices out of them, and finally, in a very meditative touch, they would ferment in the dark. Quiet, undisturbed, in rich wood casings that added to their aroma—humming with the anticipation of men and women until finally, the barrels would be cracked open, and the treasures inside would flow.

But his usual method required obeying the natural course of germination set by Mother Nature, whom had, despite her overly serious disposition, endeavored to teach him her ways when she had seen flowers open up at his touch during his first few days. And right now, that Mother was grieving, angry and vindictive against the world of mortals. Something about a lost daughter? He didn’t really care for the details.

What mattered was that he needed to sort of…circumvent the usual process.

Miracles were not by any means out of the ordinary for gods. Dionysus could see it now, in his mind, the empty treasure troves of the wine cellars. He could refill them with nothing but a command—but doing it alone wasn’t so much fun.

No, it was much more interesting to work together with someone else.

And Ares—who was presently rubbing the head of his cock with his thumb, murmuring obscenities into his ear—was always fun to work with.

As they touched each other and their nail s dug into their skin, the two gods worked up the energy inside themselves, passing it back and forth with every touch. With every sloppy kiss that left a drop of drool escape from the corners of their blessed mouths. “Your Spartans—” Dionysus huffed as a master tongue darted over his shaft. “Do they prefer their wine white, or red?”

“Depends on what’s available…” Ares murmured low, cupping Dionysus’ balls and smiling like he was so clever.

And— _oh, oh fuck he went straight to the base—_ Ares was so fucking cute. Always so coy about everything. Always so proud and elegantly sadistic in his ways, but he was interested in so many things. Saw the warfare in even the most mundane of activities, as it were. It was really too bad that Demeter hadn’t taken a liking to him like she had (barely) to Dionysus.

Cock deep in the warrior’s throat, the drunkard didn’t much care for her at that moment though.

All he cared about was the flow of wine, the bubbling of the caskets outside of the mortals’ flow of time—and the way that Ares gagged so deliciously when he finally did shoot his load into his handsome throat.

“Warn me next time.” He growled. But when Ares stood back up he attacked his lips, and his cock was so hard against Dionysus’ stomach and hair, that he knew it hadn’t bothered him too much.

Apologies didn’t always have to be verbal. Sometimes they just consisted of a good hair tug and whispered curses.

Well, that, and some nice concessions. “Hurry up and show me what all those women cream themselves over.” He said, grinning, as Ares laid him over the kitchen counter and the memories of mortal cooking activities mingled with their lust.

“Eager, are we?” The man-maker purred, sinking past Ares’ cock and nipping his balls before disappearing—save for his silver hair. “If you lose focus, the wine’ll get ruined.”

“I’ll let you take the reins, baby.” Dionysus moaned when he felt that hot tongue on his hole, and by the way that Ares began to lick with greater enthusiasm, he guessed the prospect pleased him.

Dionysus felt the shared energy start to flow into Ares, and hey, this _was_ his city. These were _his_ people. Why shouldn’t he take command over the way the wine and food tasted? Smiling lecherously, Dionysus did exactly as he had suggested and gave Ares top control over their miracle. He’d just lay back, let the man prepare him, and then take a second-in-command role when things began to reach their climax.

Dionysus was a god. As such, his refractory period was extremely short. Many mortals who had been overconfident in their sexual abilities had begged him for multiple reprieves in his time (and he, in his playfulness, had only granted some of these request). But even with his natural abilities, the Grape Lord’s cock revived very quickly this time around. He huffed, face hot, and promised himself to congratulate Aphrodite on getting such a wonderful man. Lucky woman, she was.

But he also pushed her out of his mind quickly enough. She had early pickings—but right now, all that mattered was that Ares was eating him out.

And jerking him off, wanting to make more white wine.

When that proud warlord’s manhood poked at his entrance, the sweaty man-maker smiled down at him. “They’re praying to you, you know.”

And he could hear it, the servant’s prayers that he’d be merciful and grant them enough food and drink to please their masters. He heard their pleas as Ares pushed himself deep, deep inside in one fluid motion (whispered something about how slutty he was). Dionysus moaned in response to the prayers and to the man inside of him, and then, surprising Ares, grabbed at his neck and brought him down. “They’re praying to you, too.”

He had known Ares for a long time. A very long time. And a god like Ares was proud of each and every prayer he received.

It was just the thing to kick him past the lovey-dovey hip rolls and into high gear.

He was, in a word, merciless.

Ares rammed his cock into Dionysus over and over, legs and hips slapping together as he growled possessive words into his ears and bit his neck in the most visible of places. Dionysus moaned low, purred, dragged his nails down the other man’s back and sucked back at the man’s salty neck, raising marks along the skin. His hole sang with hot pleasure as that cock hit his insides over and over, and just to be kinky he lubricated his inner walls with vintage wine from a few decades prior. Ares chuckled at the sensation, called him a low, a slut, and a _very good boy_ , which made Dionysus’s toes curl with exaltation.

Orgasm, like everything Ares preferred, was hard won and violent. And, just like the wars which never ceased on earth, it was soon followed by another. And another. And even more as they fucked in every position. As Ares dipped his hands past his usual domain and joined Dionysus in germinating wheat and fruit and meat, already sliced and fermented and prepared. The breach of divine authorities made it all the more sweeter, and after a particularly hefty barrel was filled, Ares shuddered, with Dionysus grasping the fullness of his ass with both hands. “More…”

“You want more?”

“Fuck…” He withdrew from Dionysus, his holy seed, the pinnacle of male virility, spilling out of the drunk god’s hole.

With a snap of his fingers, Dionysus made the holy liquid float, not letting a single drop fall onto the hungry tiles that hummed with a desire to rise above and become full-bodied creatures. They were not going to conceive any children today. With his feet pulsing power that made short-lived flowers grow between the lines and cracks of the floor, the purple-haired god stepped behind his divine colleague and kissed his neck. His fingers touched Ares’s hole, and the warrior god stiffened, cheeks red. Dionysus laughed. “You’ve played with yourself before.”

“I know. I just don’t often—”

“—take the real thing?” He wrapped his arms around that broad chest, whispered into his ears. “But you want to again.” Just like those times, before.

Ares shuddered at the feeling of Dionysus’ fat member rubbing against his ass, looked back at the other god.

Dionysus couldn’t help but laugh and kiss him. Really kiss him. Slowly, with his hands cupping his jaws. “You know I won’t let it hurt.”

“…” Ares’s heart beat so fast in his chest, Dionysus was able to hear it. The war god bit his lip, lay on his side atop the kitchen counter, and sighed. “…Do it.”

“Baby, it ain't like that at all. You gotta enjoy it, too, right?” And he kissed him again. And again. And again. Wrapping that spent seed around his cock, lubricating it to perfection as he grinded against Ares’s treacherously hard member and slowly, slowly loosened him. Time warped even more. The mortals would get their food, that had been set. But he would not rush Ares. No. Fine wine always took time to prepare.

And for all that preparation, all the nervous shudders and all the encouraging kisses and whispers, when Dionysus finally did penetrate Ares, the warrior god let out a moan so delicious, roses bloomed and fell from his hair.

_Yes._

_Just like that._

He would not be so brash, like Ares was. Even if Ares would honestly prefer a rougher treatment because he equated that with being tougher, somehow. No, he languidly rolled his hips in and out, stroked the man’s chest, his cock, like a shepherd’s lute on a lazy summer afternoon. He made the war god moan and gasp like the youths his warriors loved to take for their own, but the sound was so much older, so much more deep and gruff, that it drove Dionysus up a wall with ecstasy. He took full advantage of the other man’s willing vulnerability, licking his muscles, smelling his armpits and his neck and playing with those gorgeous nipples.

If Dionysus was a god of harvest as well as a god of revelry, then he would reap the fruits of pleasure with the dedication he deserved.

And Ares _deserved_ the dedication. As did his people.

“Oh—Oh _Zeus_ —” Calling on daddy’s name? Kinky. But Dionysus just kept on patiently rubbing up against each and every spot of pleasure inside of Ares, suckling on his throat, drinking of his gasps and mewls. “—I’m close. Dionysus, I can’t hold it much longer—”

“—come on, just a bit more, baby. Just a bit more—”

“—no, _heavens_ , I can’t—” He gasped, swallowed, bit his lip, tried to be angry, past the sudden discomfort and pain. He was nervous. A secret no one else would ever know. “—I can’t cum. Dionysus—”

“—Shhh.” He turned the man’s head towards his, licked away the panic on his face. “Just let it go.”

“But I _can’t_ —”

Another kiss. Firm. More authoritative than he usually was. But sometimes, that did the trick. “Think of your people. Think of their love.”

And Ares, who had been so focused on making the objects and tools of revelry with Dionysus, was hit from all directions with the desires and prayers of his city.

His orgasm made his body twitch and shake, but he barely released more than a whisper. Which was fine. After all, Dionysus could take the opportunity to deliver the energy towards the cellars’ contents, and increase their quality further. Further. Further still, from the love this hardened god had towards those who prayed to him despite his reputation. Cooing the warlord, Dionysus slipped two ornate goblets below Ares’s spurting head, and caught the final drops of his orgasm inside, filling the two to the brim.

After all, it was all in the ritual.

They didn’t stick around to hear the servant’s surprised gasp at having their prayers answered on the eve of winter. Nor their excited dances and hurried steps as they praised Ares and Dionysus for their intercession.

All Dionysus wanted to do at that moment was to help Ares ride out the last of his orgasm in some empty corner of the nearby forest, pinning him to the tree and the ground, toned legs above his shoulders, kissing him sloppily as he rode out wave after wave of pleasurable spurt. Lazy, rhythmless movements, as he held his arms up above his head and kissed the gasping warrior, drinking of a wine far richer than anything the mortal realm could provide.

“You’re such a good god.” He purred, gasping lightly in the afterglow, as Ares held him wordlessly, muscled arms tight around his frame.

With a sigh, he fell asleep.


End file.
